


the shadows of war (and how they linger)

by sergeant17thstreet



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dream Smp, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Trauma, exploration of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28281999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant17thstreet/pseuds/sergeant17thstreet
Summary: It wouldn’t be unfair to say the members of the SMP had trauma. Hell, it would probably earn an achievement, [Understatement of the Century], or something like that. Some were more obvious than others.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	the shadows of war (and how they linger)

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: mentions of manipulation for Tommy, as this is the exile arc, brief mentions of abuse and alcohol for Quackity.

It wouldn’t be unfair to say the members of the server had trauma. Hell, it would probably earn an achievement, [Understatement of the Century], or something like that. Some were more obvious than others.

Tommy couldn’t stand the color green. Especially lime green. The sickly shade made his breath quicken, his eyes glaze over, and his usual shit eating smile slide right off his face. Even Phil’s emerald colored cloak made his heart leap into his throat, reacting on instinct. He’d open his inventory and pause for a few seconds before shaking his head and storming off. 

Furthermore, Tommy hated the rain and being alone. Thunderstorms made him cower and he would have to retreat to a room with no windows, shutting out the lashing sound of the droplets on the glass. He couldn’t be alone for more than ten minutes. It reminded him too much of exile, left to his own thoughts and devices, neither of which were particularly sunny. His brothers called him clingy, if only to abate the crushing knowledge of what happened to Tommy in exile. He still refused to tell them. Not even Tubbo, once he’d been allowed in Techno’s cottage, could get the blond to cough up the details. The new quirks his friend had adopted spoke for themselves. Don’t leave Tommy alone, no rain, and never, ever wear green. Lime made his head spin. 

On the opposite end of the spectrum of emotional availability, Tubbo’s trust issues made themselves known in almost every interaction with the occupants of the cottage. Tommy was the only exception, as he always was. The two let months of hostility and tension melt away, they only really had each other. Tubbo could barely look at Phil and Techno for the first few weeks. Ghostbur was forced to relay messages between the three of them until Tubbo finally opened up to the older men over a tense dinner. It came spilling out, the younger boy’s fears of betrayal and backstabbing, remnants from the first war, and everything that came with it. 

Phil regretted not joining sooner as Tubbo faltered over the story of his execution. The kid couldn’t even look at Technoblade as he stuttered out the details. The piglin hybrid was looking directly at the floor, guilt etched across his features. Tubbo said he forgave them both, war makes bastards out of everyone, but Techno still refused to meet his eyes. The scar that took up most of Tubbo’s neck and face screamed that some things can never be forgiven. 

Technoblade himself, the infamous Blood God, the War Boar, the unkillable man, refused to open up to anyone about anything, ever. After all how would he describe the voices that screamed in his head, demanding blood, demanding violence, demanding he burn the stupid cottage down with everyone inside? If his sword was always in reach, if he stayed out for hours into the night killing monsters, if he always smelled of death, no one gathered the courage to mention it. Well Ghostbur would but Techno supposed that was because he couldn’t retaliate against a non-corporeal being. Small mercies.

Ghostbur couldn’t remember the bad times or the bad things he’d done but someone would always remind him. Sometimes it was Tommy, in a fit of rage that his brother had left him to clean up the mess. Sometimes it was Tubbo, making a joke that hit too close to home. Sometimes it was Fundy, all of Wilbur’s failures given living form. He could only bear to be in his son’s presence for so long before the tension in the air threatened to suffocate them. It hurt to look at the color orange so Wilbur carried his blue to help him. And he could see his family was hurting, so he always made sure to shower them with blue. 

But the blue couldn’t fix everything for the ghost. Sometimes it even hurt to look at the color. It was the wrong shade, blue was supposed to be softer, lighter like the sky. It was supposed to match the yellow sweater Ghostbur wore. It was supposed to be a friend. Even ghosts get lonely.

Quackity shared the same plight as Wilbur. He missed someone who would never come back. And he couldn’t fucking explain it, okay? Schlatt was a terrible leader and a terrible human. He had a god awful temper, he always reeked of wine, and he’d pissed Quackity off every chance he got. Hell, Schlatt even hit him once or twice. He’d apologize but Quackity didn’t know how serious to take those apologies. They were always made sober, so he supposed that counted for something. 

Something he’d never admit out loud or even to himself but Quackity almost missed the old man. Maybe not all of him but certainly the consistency that came with working for a drunken despot. Wake up, throw on a suit, show up to the White House, laugh with Tubbo about the latest of Schlatt’s drunken antics, sign whatever paperwork the president dumped on his desk, discreetly dispose of empty bottles, and attempt small talk with Schlatt before heading home. Consistency. That’s what Quackity sought. That and a way to avoid drowning in the push-pull tides of war that threatened to wash over the SMP. 

Even victors don’t walk away from war unscathed. Sure, they won, but some would ask at what cost?

Sapnap was in the same box as Tommy, he hated the color green. It filled him with a rage so strong, it burned. And for that he always carried matches, lighters, even something as simple as a flint and steel. Any forest that seemed too green to him was set ablaze, leaving scorched earth and a wasteland in his wake. Jungle biomes were his favorite to burn, the fires would send plumes of smoke far above the raging inferno. The clouds of smoke made it easier to see his targets; these stupid birds that were the perfect shade of lime. It never took more than ten arrows to finish off a flock of them. 

If that didn’t satisfy his rage, he’d build towering wooden structures and set them ablaze, relishing in the crackling roar of the fire. He always stood too close, trying to feel a warmth that had long faded from his life. His hands were littered with calluses, scars, and burns. Hands formed by war and always destined to destroy. Or so someone had told him. When Sapnap would eventually stumble back to the Community House, reeking of smoke and shaking ash out of his hair, George would be there to patch him up. They wouldn’t speak of it, George would be waiting there with a regeneration potion and plenty of bandages. He’d help Sapnap up the stairs and there they would fall asleep in a far too empty home. 

George took up gardening from Niki. He said he needed something to do with his hands that wasn’t fighting. She accepted his lie easily and spent an entire afternoon going over the various flowers of the land and how to cultivate them. Her favorites were sunflowers, tall things that grew in sprawling fields. She told him that when there was no sun, the flowers would face each other, drawing their sunlight from one another. Always connected to someone. If George caught the true meaning of her words, he didn’t mention it. 

Some things are better left unspoken.

In contrast he preferred to grow mushrooms. Massive, towering things that dwarfed some of the buildings on the server. They could give him blocks to decorate with or small sprouts he could cook with or plant later. They were a cyclical plant, always useful. They helped with his second hobby, brewing potions with Ghostbur. George would trade mushrooms for brewing lessons, learning how to brew health, strength, regeneration. He kept his inventory full, ready to administer aid at any time. He wanted to help, he wanted to be useful for someone. Even if it was only Sapnap, limping back from another night of burning forests. If George noticed his burns were only ever on his hands, he kept his thoughts to himself. He too missed the warmth that used to reside in the Community House. 

Eventually the emptiness of the Community House wore on the pair and they left. There were only so many times they could look at the third bed, hastily shoved into the corner, a blanket covering the lime green sheets. It hadn’t been used in months. 

On the other side of the server, in a base so far from spawn no one would ever hope to stumble upon it, a boy in a mask cried himself to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! thank you for reading my first fic on ao3! for 1400 words, it was a bitch to write. i really enjoy in depth analyses of characters and how they have developed and this is my personal attempt at it. 
> 
> kudos fill my soul and comments sustain me through the week, so please consider leaving your thoughts.
> 
> follow my tumblr, @sergeant17thstreet for more mcyt content


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